Come Away With Me
by CutewithAcapital-Q
Summary: Started out as a oneshot, but now is becoming a chronicle of the month and a half before Harry arrived at the Burrow in the Seventh Book, From Ron and Hermione's perspective of course
1. Part 1

Come away with me….

Ron inhaled as apparition sucked him into a moment. His feet touched down on side walk. His eyes scanned the quiet muggle neighborhood he'd landed in, and was pleased to meet no one's eye. He stowed his wand in his pocket, but only enough to hide it from muggle eyes. He exhaled and took his first step down the path. Ron felt a little out of place trekking through such an elite street. The houses were large and varied in design, and Ron had to squint in themiddaysun to read the address plaques near the front door. Though all the houses looked different, he wouldn't know what to look for anyway, he'd only remember the address from three years ago, and arrived last time through the fireplace, and even then the first thing he remembered seeing was her face.

He picked up his pace. It had barely been a month, but that couldn't have passed slower. It seemed like they'd spent nearly the whole of the past school year feuding, and just when they got back to that point where'd they'd left off in their friendship, the term ended in an abrupt and shuddering halt. Everything seemed to move so much faster these days, plans and conspiracy cluttered conversations, Ron felt like he was hurtling headlong into a muddled future. But when he was with her, he could breathe just a little bit easier, after so many years together, it seemed she was somehow encompassed with the rationality and logic she was so fond of. She made sense, and like gravity she kept his feet on the ground.

There it was at the end of the street, 38 Fazone rd, traditional but welcoming in the bright summer sun. There was a large and strange automobile in the drive, but he hardly cared, to note the detail, making a Bee-line to the entrance.

Quickly he checked himself over and hastily rapped on the door frame.

He held his breath as muffled footsteps gained volume behind the large blue door. As it opened, he met eyes with…a terrified woman whom he had no acquaintance with.

* * *

><p>There's MORE I swear! This is just the intro but what do you think?<p> 


	2. Part 2

Come away with me…. Part 2

"Ron…" The strange lady whispered, under her breath, in a subconscious way, and he took a step back in surprise, suddenly met with a feeling of danger.

"Hattie, who is it?" called another woman's voice that unmistakably belonged to Hermione's mother, which calmed Ron's nerves, but only slightly. The mystery lady made a quick and stiffening shudder at the question, and Hermione's parents wandered in to the entrance hall, looking expectantly over her shoulder. Ron was about to speak but was cut off by the woman.

"Monica, Wendell," she said, not facing the couple, pulling Ron into the house and putting her hands on his shoulders, and with pleading eyes, but steady voice, she said, still to the Grangers, "Let me introduce you to my son…Alan."

At which point, she presented Ron to them, continuing in a strange cheeriness, "Al, these are the Wilkins'," she said, nearly hinting the words. Worry re-entered his system, and Ron took a moment to regard his options, and decided to play along, for now. He slowly reached out his hand to Mr. "Wilkins" who had to maneuver his hand around the portrait of himself and his wife, he was holding.

"How'd you do," He said awkwardly, shaking each of their hands, looking them straight in the eye searching for any recognition.

"Please to meet you." They responded in earnest.

"Al," Hattie cut back in, "Has come…to help pack up, right son?" The words seemed to come out of her mouth the moment she thought of them, looking to Ron for agreement. He only blinked back, his mouth opened and closed like a fish. She placed her hand inside her jacket pocket. Without drawing any attention he eyed the house. There didn't seem to be anything wrong though he could help wondering what was out of place…well, what _else_ was out of place.

"Oh, what a kind son, to help his mother on a Sunday," Mrs. Wilkins gushed, she was even more oblivious then Ron.

"Well, trust me; he'd be off at the park playing football, or something if he hadn't hurt his leg last weekend." Hattie seemed to be becoming more inventive, even rolling her eyes with a mother's grin.

"Ahh, football," Mr. Granger/Wilkins said, raising his eyebrows, "What position go you play?"

"Err keeper?" Ron mumbled uncertainly, hoping there was indeed a keeper in that mad muggle "sport", or so Dean Thomas insisted on calling it.

"A fine position," Mr. Wilkins unknowingly validated Ron.

"Yes, he's quite the athlete," Hattie cut in again speedily, "And I could go on for ages about him, but we're on a schedule."

"Of course," Mrs. Wilkins remembered, "Come on now Wendell our flight's in less then five hours," she said giddily, helping her husband carry the portrait away.

"Right, I'll just get show Alan up stairs and he can pack up what's left up there," Hattie tried to guide Ron away to the stair case, but he held his ground, nervous to go anywhere with this woman. She looked at him with that hidden pleading again, and he saw her hand move slightly in her coat pocket. A hot sting shot the center of his leg and it buckled instantly.

"Arrgh, my knee," Ron hissed, in a way which blended the words in his mouth together. His mind stopped for only a moment to realize the name he'd said. He looked up into the woman's milky green eyes, mouth hanging agate, searching for the brown that, if his signs were correctly interpreted, lay somewhere behind them. She made the slightest of nods, and then turned back to the couple putting back on the charade.

"Oh no, see, that injury coming up again. Hurry lets get you up the stairs."

She helped him wobble up the stairs and when they were out of sight in the hallway, Ron tried to begin, "Her-?"

"Shh!" She hissed back sharply, "Wait till we're in my room." She hurriedly pulled him down the hall and stopped abruptly at a stretch of wall. She extracted her hand finally from her coat and with it Hermione's wand. That was at least a relief to Ron, but still his mind puzzled the possibility that this was simply a very well planned trick. He had never seen Hermione in polyjuice before, not really counting the time she accidentally gave herself whiskers in second year. This woman, Hattie, was middle-aged, and was much taller then Hermione. She was thin too, long neck, and high cheek bones, nearly gaunt in complexion as well. Her black hair was curled and pinned up, to match the strange muggle ensemble she wore.

She tapped the bare wall, and Ron watched a door knob push seamless out of the papering. She immediately twisted the knob, and the paper split into a distinct rectangle at the instant it was turned. She pushed the door open and Ron followed. The door closed behind him and he too brought his wand back out.

"Ron, what are you doing-?" She began in unrestrained tone of exasperation, turning to face him. However, what met her eyes cut her voice silent. Ron had raised his wand directly at her.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, but-who are you?" he said, shaking slightly at the idea of having Hermione at Wand point, and also the possibility his suspicions were right.

"What, Ron didn't you get it?" she responded taken aback by the accusation, "It's me, Hermione."

"Just tell me something, so I know it's you…"

"Ron, you're an absolute prat…"

"No, something everyone else _doesn't _know," He attempted to joke, she was not amused, "Er, What was you first pet?"

"Ron, Crookshanks, bu-"

"Are you sure…"

"Oh," She twitched her pointed nose and sighed, "You mean Sheldon my imaginary turtle."

"Alright good it's you then," Ron breathed out, and then laughed.

"What?"

"Imaginary turtle," He mumbled in a chuckle.

"Ron!" Hermione yelled, "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I came to pick you up. Hermione-"

"You're not supposed to be here. I wrote that I'd be apparating in later today. You weren't supposed to see this." She lamented, quietly wringing her boney and aged hands, avoiding his eye.

Weird, how looking at this stranger he was able to see the quirks and mannerisms so individual to Hermione. The way she chewed at her lip when she was over thinking things, a habit Ron was sure he had perpetuated after so many games of chess. Or the nervous wrinkle above her nose from her furrowed brow. And then, he saw the red rings around her eyes that she had been hiding with make-up.

"Hermione…What have you done?" He asked in a deadpan whisper.

"You weren't supposed to be here," she repeated hopelessly.

"Hermione!" Ron snapped again, making her jump slightly.

"I wanted to protect them," She began

"So you swiped their memories?"

"No! Never, I just, gave them new memories."

"What?" Ron asked still not getting it. Hermione took a deep breathe.

"Their under a charm, it's powerful, but I haven't oblivated their memories or anything. I've just put fake memories in place of the real ones."

"And what exactly did you put into their heads?"

"Well, They're er…retired Dentists," She began reasonably, then added rapidly, "About to fulfill their dream to move to Australia…"

"Australia!" Ron yelled, "Bloody hell Hermione, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking there is a war coming and I don't want my parents in danger!" Hermione shouted back indignantly. Her fierce words cut like a knife. Ron was thrown.

"Hermione, I don't understand," He said in a more quiet tone, trying to calm her down, a screaming match was not what he wanted today to result in. "You didn't have to do this. You could have come to us. My family-"

"Your family," Hermione interjected, with a bite, "Has enough to deal with. I will not just dump my parents on them."

"Oh, come on, my dad adores your folks, and they'd just be two extra seats at the wedding to my mum," Ron joked.

"But it's not just going to be until the wedding or the end of the summer, or even 'til next year." Hermione explained in agitation, "Think about it Ron, we're leaving for who knows how long on this mission with Harry. Even if, by some miracle, all goes well and we all get out of this _alive_, what kind of person would I be if I forced my parents to give up their lives in the world, and then abandon them as prisoners in your house. Ron this isn't their war, and I don't intend to bring them into it. They'll be safe in Australia. And when and if the time comes, I'll go find them, and I'll fix everything."

"What if the when never comes?" Ron asked, still clinging to his position. Hermione was taken aback, he seemed to have hit the one vulnerability in her logic, just as if their argument resided on a chess board. Her next move was prepared, however.

"Then Wendell and Monica Wilkins will be very happy in their new lives." Her stern tone, laced with pain, told him the conversation was over.

"Hermione, I don't think-"

"Ron, please, don't try to give me any more reasons not to do what's been done. I've had this planned for a month, and have come up with every excuse to wait 'til now." She kept eye contact with him, ensuring he got the message. Abruptly she ended her stare, and read her watch, "We need to finish packing within the hour. I need to go back down."

"Should I help?" He said hoping to make amends.

"No." Hermione ordered, "No," she repeated more demurely, and continued in the calmer tone, "I don't want them to talk to you anymore then they need to. Just stay here." She turned to the door, her hand on the knob, then swiveled back around, "And don't touch anything," she said this not so much as a order, but more a request, out of the uncertainty of letting him stay in her room. She left without another word.

"Don't touch anything," Ron repeated her words in an indignant snort, "what does she think I'm going to do, ransack her ro-" but his voice fell away as he realized his location. A place he'd had many a fantasy in, although, the scenery had hardly ever mattered compared to what he was doing in those fantasies. This situation was certainly never in his dreams (you had to be one right sod to fantasize about the girl you fancy polyjuiced as a woman as old as your mum.) but still what an opportunity. To see the place Hermione spent her magicless childhood. It was a moderately sized room, bigger then room Ron had ever seen meant for one person. The walls were crisp and white, with light purple things at the bottom of the wall.

There was a bay window, with a seat and book shelf, Ron could imagine she enjoyed reading there in the sun, when it wasn't cluttered with boxes as it was now. And then he began to notice everywhere was cluttered with boxes. For that matter every possible place to sit was taken up with boxes half packed up. But that didn't make much sense, Hermione had never been the most materialistic person, it was doubtful she would need all these things with her, and even less sense to have her parents who were currently not even her parents to take them.

Then he peered into one of the opened boxes on her bed spread. It was filled with framed pictures, all of Hermione. There was one with her a bald baby napping in her basinet, and another Ron would have laughed to see in wizarding form, with Hermione clumsily chasing after a ball in the grass, as a mop topped toddler in a purple dress. Ron had a wonderful time picking Hermione out in the formal photographs of her in a crowd of other little girls in dance shoes and matching outfits, she had the most serious expression of course.

Finished with that box and curious to see some more of these highly embarrassing photos he moved on to the next box. But Ron was disappointed; all he found were chunky black rectangles of plastic, with what seemed to be rolls of Spello tape inside. He was vaguely familiar with these devices, he remembered his father explaining them, they were how muggles made up for non-moving photographs. Muggles put them in funny little boxes with screens and the screen lit up with moving pictures and sound. Each of the plastic bricks was labeled neatly: "Hermione's First steps", "Hermione's First Recital," Hermione's Birth," (ew) "Hermione's first word(s)" "Hermione at the Park," and so on and so on.

Ron couldn't help but feel slightly jealous, one in seven in a poor family would never allow for such detailed documentation of childhood. Ron could probably count on one hand the amount of photo's he was featured in alone. But Hermione's parents seemed obsessed with her, there wasn't a label without her name on it or a picture without her face. He continued to look through the boxes, being very careful to replace whatever he touched to ensure Hermione's piece of mind.

All the boxes with the same theme, Hermione, there were more pictures, photo albums, scholar awards dating back to Sunday school, greeting cards, even a whole pile of homemade gifts inscribed 'to Mummy and Daddy'. Ron had a ball, rummaging through the artifacts of Hermione's childhood; he only wished he had one of those boxes with the screens, so he could watch some of the things on those bricks.

Grudgingly he arrived at the last box in the corner, but before even opening it, he saw one last frame, a big one, curiously standing alone up against the wall and not faced the correct direction. He tilted it into view, and then stopped to stare at the portrait, at the three pairs of eyes he had seen before. The complete Granger family looked back him in content stillness. There it was that thing that was out of place in the entry hall. It was the exact portrait "Wendell" had been carrying upon their meeting, however his copy had been edited down to two people.

Ron's stomach fell as he's swallowed lead. He finally understood the meaning of the boxes. All of it was every last scrap of evidence of Hermione's existence in her parents' lives. It was all here, hidden away. Ron relapsed in shame for looking at it all, for laughing, (okay maybe not for laughing, under any circumstances this stuff would have been pretty damn funny, but still). It finally sunk in, the meaning of everything Hermione had done, and just how much that meant to her.

The door creaked open and his eye met the blood shot ones of a very weary old woman.


	3. The Change of Things

Hi, I know I kind of pop in and out of existence these days. For a while I was resolved to never post another thing on this site ever again, thinking my works not worth the trouble of sharing. But I've been thinking a lot about my past year, and the people I've met, the people I've lost, people that believe in me, people that trust me, and the people that would want me pick this back up again.

So here's an update... its a small start but I'm going to do this. It's summer and I want to get a lot of work done, tie up these loose ends, even if I don't have control over everything in my life, its time to try to deal with what I can.

This Chapter's called 'The Change of Things'- It's short but hopefully is well received.

Enjoy

"They're gone…" She said weakly, her shoulders slumped visibly even through the padded muggle jacket. Her eyes flicked between Ron and the up-turned portrait he was handling. She froze, and her eyes widen.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Ron began, scared she be angry with him for looking around, "I didn't mean to-" his words fell away as her face strained to keep control of its muscles. Losing the battle, her lip quivered and bowed into an unbecoming frown and her eyes squinted with Hattie's crowsfeet. Ashamed, she turned her head down out of Ron's view. Ron could see her begin to shiver in wake of the tears she had been holding so long.

'Time to shine,' He thought hollowly, replacing the frame against the wall. He carefully wrapped his awkward long arms around her strange new body. She didn't match his embrace, or ever register his touch. Under his cover she released the first great sob.

Ron ushered her over to the bed, she shook more and her grief grew in volume. He felt Hermione's skin begin to shift and melt back into its natural form; the Polyjuice finally wore off. She shrank back to her petite stature, and consequently a water mark trailed down Ron's shoulder as her face slid along it. Her hair blossomed furiously out of the pinned up-do it had been in, and regained its dark brown sheen and curl. As she cried, her skin reworked itself back into her proper face, though he hadn't seen it yet.

When the transformation was complete, she pulled away. Head still hanging low, and hair draped thickly over her face still, she pushed him away to cry harder. He withdrew slightly at first, but it was seriously way too painful to sit there and watch her cry, so softly he replaced his hand on her shoulder. She stifled her crying until it was nothing more than sporadic hick-ups and sniffles. She put her head in her hands and paused to take a deep breath. Finally, she lifted her head, and slid her hands up her forehead and smoothed her hair out of her face. Finally that face. He wanted to grin in relief, and then she turned to him, cheeks flushed, and the bags more pronounced under her true eyes.

"That's better," he mumbled without thinking, taking in the sight of her.


End file.
